


867-5309 (billy)

by reject_mikeyy



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe: 867-5309 by Tommy Tutone, Billy Is Emotionally Constipated, But Not Much, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Didn't Know They Were Dating, F/F, Hand Jobs, It's okay though, M/M, Marijuana, Misunderstandings, Sexting, Steve Is Kind Of A Fuckboy, Tutoring, a tiny bit of angst, and
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 14:09:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reject_mikeyy/pseuds/reject_mikeyy
Summary: Once he is done vomiting, Steve takes a second to rest his head on the cool toilet seat before realizing that. Wow. Ew. Not in the boys’ bathroom, thanks. Not in a homophobic way, don’t get him wrong, he’s eaten his fair share of ass but just. Germs and shit.Anyway. When he looks up from the bowl for the first time, he notices something scrawled on the wall at eye level.For a good time, text: 221-867-5309Eyeroll.-------------------In which Billy is the unlucky sucker with his number written on a bathroom stall, and Steve is the oblivious fool who actually texts him.





	867-5309 (billy)

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on "867-5309 (Jenny)" by Tommy Tutone.

Steve barely makes it out the door and to the lecture hall bathroom in time to drop to his knees and start emptying his guts into the gross college toilet. He doesn’t even close the stall door, just starts hurling in the general direction of the bowl. If only his friends could see him now, _ King Steve Harrington, Boston College Keg Stand Champion 2018 _ slumped over the toilet like a drunk bitch in one of those ads for alcohol poisoning. Wait. No. They’re not _ advertising _alcohol poisoning. You know what he means. 

At least he didn’t throw up in his backpack. Shit’s Herschel, it was expensive. 

Once he is done vomiting, he takes a second to rest his head on the cool toilet seat before realizing that. Wow. Ew. Not in the boys’ bathroom, thanks. Not in a homophobic way, don’t get him wrong, Steve’s eaten his fair share of ass but just. Germs and shit. 

Anyway. When he looks up from the bowl for the first time, he notices something scrawled on the wall at eye level. 

_ For a good time, text: 221-867-5309 _

And. _ Eyeroll. _ This person’s phone bill must be ridiculous, whoever it is. Probably some frat guy whose pal decided it’d be a real funny joke to give out his number. Poor guy has probably already had to change it. Steve imagines getting random texts all hours of the day from people looking for _ a good time _ and winces. He slides his phone out of his back pocket and takes a picture of the number (he _ has _to send this to Jonathan) before making a mental note to call Custodial Services and get it taken down. He’s a good samaritan, okay? Sue him.

Figuring it’s probably time to get back to class, Steve stands with a little effort, brushing off his knees. He washes his hands, looking at himself in the mirror. God, why did the ‘Two Weeks From Halloween’ party have to be on a Wednesday? Why did he _ still _go out? He ducks his head under the automatic faucet and attempts to get some water in his mouth, to hopefully work on getting the taste of stomach acid and stale vodka out. 

He makes his way back into the lecture hall and into his seat, trying to be as subtle as he can and ignoring some snickers from the people who had watched him frantically leave a few minutes ago. Yeah, sure, laugh it up. They’re just jealous. He fixes one of the offending starers with a look that he hopes could cut glass. Really, he just looks tired. 

The rest of the lecture passes like the professor is speaking Charlie Brown parent language, and as he _ womp-womp womp womps _ on about French New Wave Cinema, Steve starts to doze. When people start to get up, he’s shocked awake by the slamming of a desk next to him. He looks up to see Tommy standing over him. 

“Hey, dude. Saw you leave to go hurl earlier.” He says, not a shred of concern or empathy in his voice.

“Yeah, you and the other 50 people in this room.” Steve says, frowning at the still-empty page titled “_ Film History Notes, 10/18 _” in his notebook and then putting it back in his bag. He stands, and Tommy follows him out of the hall.

“Wanna go to lower? I’m starving.” He said, hovering around Steve. Steve rubs his eyes and pushes on the bridge of his nose, trying to make his head stop ringing. Tommy is like a puppy, always following him around. Steve still can’t believe he followed him all the way out here from Hawkins to begin with. And he _ really _can’t believe he even got in, though that’s not something he’d say out loud. 

“No, man. I wanna go to bed. Do I look like I want anything to do with food?” Steve said, dodging to avoid someone walking at him. He’s going back to his dorm, and going straight to sleep for the next year.

“Whatever dude, catch you later.” Tommy says, unfazed, and leaves in the direction of the lower campus dining hall. Steve crosses the street and heads towards his dorm, tapping his ID on the panel to get into the building and then into his suite. He toes off his sneakers and takes off his bomber jacket in the entryway, hanging up the latter because he’s not a _ complete _ heathen. He then shuffles down the long hallway toward his bedroom (a single room, thank Jesus), flopping his backpack onto his desk chair and nearly tripping over the remains of his party clothes from last night. Lying down in bed, he pushes his joggers over his hips. Successfully pantsless, he opens his phone to set an alarm for 5PM, his next class being at 6. While he’s at it, he texts that photo to Jonathan, who reads the message almost immediately.

12:20 PM

_ oh my GOD _

12:20 PM

_ steve you HAVE to text it _

12:20 PM

_ i cant stress enough how much i need you to text that number _

12:21 PM

_ i dare you _

He regrets even sending the photo now. As he’s typing back a quick ‘fuck off, no’ he gets a FaceTime call from none other than Jon. When he begrudgingly picks up, he finds not the devil himself, but Nancy’s face, far too close to the screen and smiling evilly at him. Ouch. Still stings a little. 

“Hey, Nance.” He gets out before she starts to speak.

“Steve. I double dog dare you to text that number. I’m living vicariously through you, here.” She says and Steve sighs. 

“Then why don’t_ you _ just text it?” He asks, knowing what she’s going to say.

“Because _ I’m _ not the one in need of a good time. What if it’s somebody hot? Ooh, what if it’s a cute guy?” And she. Has the fucking audacity to wink. She does this. She always does this. Since he got to school, she’s been dying for him to find a guy to hook up with. Steve reckons she still feels guilty about breaking up with him in high school, and wants to rectify the situation by convincing herself it’s for Steve’s own good, he doesn’t like girls anyway, not _ really. _Horseshit. He’s been through this whole thing with her so many times though, that he’s just tired of it. He ignores her wink.

“Hey! I take offense to that, how do you know I’m in need of a good time? I’m doing perfectly fine for myself out here.” He cries indignantly, but Nancy sees through it, she always does.

“Uh-huh. I’m sure. Because you weren’t just texting me last week telling me that ‘they must’ve written the Friends theme song about you because of how much your love life is a joke.’” She rolls her eyes. From over Nancy’s shoulder, he hears Jonathan chime in.

“You’d think being bi, you’d have double the options.” He says, amused. Steve always knew he liked Jonathan better. Jonathan isn’t biphobic for the sake of personal gain. That’s a good quality to have in a friend, Steve thinks.

“Ha-ha Jon, very funny. And I told you that in _ confidence, Nance. _Besides, I was having a mental breakdown, you can’t trust me during a manic episode.” He says, catching a glimpse of himself in the front camera and adjusting his angle to get rid of as much double-chin as possible. 

“A broken down mind’s words are a put-together mind’s thoughts, Stevie.” She chides, like that means anything. Steve voices as such.

“You just made that up, that’s not real.” He says.

“Text it.” She says.

“I’m hanging up now.” Steve retorts.

“Text it!!! I dare you!!” She yells.

“Oh Nance! I can’t hear you! You’re going in and out, poor connection! I’m going through a tunnel!” He says, pressing his thumb firmly against the red End Call button. He contemplates locking his phone and going to sleep, opening and closing Facebook a few times absently before opening the texts app again. He looks back at his texts with Jonathan, opening the photo with the number in it.

_ Fuck it. What’s the worst that could happen, right? _

Steve takes a look at the number and then opens a new message. Hates himself exponentially more with every digit he types. He taps on the message bubble, and the number turns blue in the contact field. Fuck. It’s real, now. If the number had stayed green, maybe he wouldn’t have gone through with it, maybe it wasn’t a real number. Maybe it was out of service. Maybe it was an Android. But now. Now it’s happening, whether Steve wants it to or not. 

His thumbs move seemingly of their own accord, typing ‘_ a good time, huh?’ _For clarification’s sake, he attaches the photo from earlier as well. 

Feeling like the biggest worst perv to ever exist, he sends the text without looking and closes out of the texts app. He locks his phone, shoving it under his pillow and rolling over to face the wall. Okay, naptime now. Don’t worry about it, not a problem. Didn’t even happen. They probably won’t even respond. 

Steve wakes up to his alarm, and blindly opens his phone to turn it off. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he almost slips on the gross linoleum floor when he sees the little red **(1)** app badge on the texts app. He slides his finger from the top to the bottom of his iPhone screen, reading a notification that makes his stomach turn over.

+1 (221) 867-5309

_ Text Message _ (2:48 PM)

AHH. Steve slides his finger back up the screen to make the notification go away. If he doesn’t read the text, he doesn’t have to deal with the problem he’s created. He throws himself out of bed and back into his joggers, picking up his backpack to go to his 6 PM Fundamentals in Speech Communications class. 

He stops at the dining hall on the way to class because _ of course _he does, and while he’s waiting in line for some gimmicky buffalo chicken mac and cheese something or other, he realizes he hasn’t eaten all day. Snagging two granola bars from the checkout, he pays for his food and sits at a table to eat. He absently slides his phone out of his pocket, fumbling with the case. He unlocks it and blatantly ignores the texts app badge again, opening Instagram. 

  
The app auto-refreshes and at the very top of his feed, Steve is blinded by a photo of one Billy Hargrove. Ugh. If he’d thought Tommy following him all the way to Boston was bad, that was nothing compared to _ Hargrove _ being here. How he ended up here was beyond Steve, he was always going on about heading west after graduation, going back to Cali. What are the fucking odds.

Asshole is standing in an empty subway car, posing like a dickhead model. Which, Steve supposes, is what he is. The guy has ONE friend at Massachusetts College of Art and Design that gets him in as model for a figure drawing class and suddenly he’s a bigshot Instagram star. And he looks good too, goddammit. That’s the worst part, is Steve can admit that the fluorescents on the train are really working for him. He’s got those shitty vintage-not-vintage Nike Cortez’s on his feet, white socks tucked into heather gray joggers, and a matching gray cropped sweatshirt. His stomach is showing and of course. Of course it’s rock-hard. He looks like he’s just been on a run. Steve rolls his eyes. Hargrove’s hair is back in a bun, but his baby hairs are curling around his ears and forehead, sticking to his face with sweat like he thinks he’s fucking FKA Twigs or something. One of his eyebrows are quirked and he looks at the camera.

  
The caption. God, the fucking caption. Is “ _ in train-ing. _ ” What an asshole. Train puns are obviously the lowest brand of comedy. The location tag says “Green Line.” Ugh. The green line isn’t even the superior line. _ Obviously _ it’s the blue line, it’s the cleanest because no one’s ever on it. Green line is second at best. Probably third once they get around to replacing the red line train cars. Steve’s rambling. Point is. Billy Hargrove is an asshole whether he’s in the middle of Indiana or not. 

Steve spends the next few minutes scrolling and shoveling food in his face, and then he throws away his trash and heads to class. Sitting down in his usual seat, he gives a polite smile to his regular seatmates and then opens his phone again, looking pointedly at the texts app before locking the phone and putting it in his backpack. Not to be worried about right now.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out his Macbook, sliding it onto the shitty chair-desk and pushing it open. He Command-T’s open two new tabs, one solitaire and one Google Doc of notes. He’ll let you determine which one he’s going to be using more. 

After an hour and 45 minutes of sighing and refreshing games of solitaire (what? not every game is winnable), Steve shuts his laptop again and puts it back in his bag as the professor dismisses them. He checks his phone calendar to find that it’s Thursday, and there’s _ no _ lacrosse practice, thank God. Sluggishly, he goes back to his room to watch Great British Baking Show and Postmates some chips and guacamole. 

Completing the same ritual of kicking off his shoes and shucking off his jacket, Steve finds himself alone in the suite. Everyone must be out at class or sports or something, so he supposes it’s the perfect opportunity to take a shower. Once he gets back into his bedroom, he orders his Postmates and starts to get ready for a quick shower. 

He pushes his joggers down his hips again, taking his Calvin Klein boxer-briefs with them. So what if he’s boujee, he’s not afraid to admit it. Realizing he’s standing in front of his bedroom window with no pants on like Winnie the fucking Pooh, he shucks off his shirt as well, dropping it and his pants in his hamper. Grabbing a towel off of a Command hook on the door, he wraps it around his waist and begins to gather his shower materials: Lush shampoo, Lush body wash, Lush conditioner. Hey, he did say he’s boujee. He snags a face mask tub out of his shower caddy on his way. With no Friday classes, it’s practically the weekend, he deserves it! 

After smuggling all of his various pots and jars to the bathroom, he puts them down in their respective spots and stands in front of the mirror queueing songs on Spotify. _ We really should get an Echo in here, _ he thinks as he puts his phone down in an empty Solo cup to amplify the sound.   
  


As BROCKHAMPTON swing into Boogie, Steve twists open the face mask and absorbs the smell deep into his nose. Mmm, blueberries. Steve will be the first to admit that-okay, actually he won’t be the first to admit that he has to work on his skin, but he does take pride in his routine. The Catastrophe Cosmetic mask is a godsend. Taking some on his fingers, he rubs it on his face and then closes the container the best he can with sticky fingers. He hops in the shower, now that it’s steamed up the room a little, and starts to get his hair wet. 

Washing his hair and body quickly so as not to miss his Postmates delivery, he takes his body wash on a loofah and drowns in the scent of pine trees and spices for a minute, almost _ almost _ taking _ extra care _ around his cock if you know what he means, before realizing he has all night to jerk off if he wants to, and deciding to save it.

He rinses off his body and washes off the face mask before turning off the shower, and wrapping the towel back around his waist. He pads back into his bedroom and dries off further, getting dressed in some sweats (different ones than he wore to class, thank you) and sliding on some shoes to go meet his Postmates delivery person.

Ten minutes later and Steve is one order of chips and guac richer, and he flops onto his bed and turns the TV on. Navigating to Netflix, he puts on Frasier to be in the background while he eats. Niles and Daphne always make his heart swell. He finishes his chips and throws the bag toward his trash can, attempting to locate his phone in the mass of blankets in front of him. Holding his thumb down on the home button until it unlocks, he notices that he has a text. Opening the messages app, he taps to open the unread text before-

_ Shit. He’d forgotten that he was putting off reading the text from the number. Shit shit shit, now he has to read it. Oh, boy, oh jeez. _Taking a deep breath, he reads the message, now that he guesses he has no choice.

_ ‘depends on your idea of a good time ;)’ _

And. You’ve got to be kidding Steve. He put off reading that text all day for _ this _? His words poorly thrown back at him in an attempt at throwing the ball back in his court? Puh-leaze. This person is promising a good time, and Steve wants to really be shaken to his core. So far this is pretty weak sauce. 

‘_ im sure you fit the bill’ _ Steve says, before double-texting, _ ‘tell me abt urself.’ _

He waits a few seconds while the person types, wondering what they look like on the other side of the screen. Is it a girl or a guy? How old are they? What do they look like? Do they go to school with him? They have to, why else would their number be on the wall? In the time it takes Steve to ask himself 4 million questions, the little _ dot dot dot _ of typing has come and gone, and he has a new message. 

‘_ well to start, im a guy, i go to BC (which i bet is where u took that photo), im a psych major,’ _he says, answering most of Steve’s questions right off the bat. He waits while the guy keeps typing. 

‘_ im 5’10”, ive got blue eyes, and im pretty fit if i do say so myself…’ _He says, and Steve can’t resist.

_ ‘wow, we stan a short king’ _ he jokes, and the guy _ dislikes _ the message. Awesome. Off to a great start. He reaches for the remote and pauses _ Frasier _, turning the TV off altogether. If they’re gonna do this, he doesn’t want Dr. Niles Crane staring at him. 

_ ‘5’10” is so not short’ _ the guy says, and then double-texts, _ ‘if ur so up on ur high horse abt it, tell me what u look like. :P’ _and Steve huffs. Uh. Does he tell the guy about himself? Like for real? What if he does, and then the guy recognizes him? He decides to go for ‘vague but attractive,’ and starts crafting the message.

_ ‘uhh ok, im also a guy, i also go to BC, im an art history major, im 5’11”, i have dark hair, and im a lax player so id like to think im pretty in shape. got a good picture of me in your head?’ _And the guy has the audacity to fucking. The guy goes.

_ ‘picture perfect, babe’ _and he sends the tongue-out emoji and the camera emoji. Despicable. But also hot, Steve’s not gonna lie.

_ ‘what should i call you?’ _he asks, getting sick of calling the guy, well, The Guy.

_ ‘you mean besides daddy? you can call me W, if you like’ _ and Steve doesn’t know how to deal with that text. He cringes a little and draws his knees up toward his chest. Ew. But also as much as he doesn’t want to admit it, a little lightning bolt of heat shoots up his spine at the other guy’s words. What? Everybody has a daddy kink right now, millennials are fucked up. 

_ ‘what about you?’ _ W asks, and Steve panics. Uh. Is _ S _too obvious? No, right? Ughhh. Whatever, BC is a big school, he’s sure he’ll never see this guy ever. Fuck it is becoming sort of Steve’s motto today.

_ ‘S’ _ he says, before realizing that’s definitely not enough context. _ ‘you can call me S’ _ and wow. Steve is really killing it with the foreplay, here. Deciding to up his game a little, he tacks a wink emoji and a snake emoji onto the end. Y’know, snake starts with ‘s’? Whatever.

_ ‘alright S, where are you right now?’ _W asks, and Steve replies quickly.

_ ‘just in my dorm, u?’ _

_ ‘me too, i just got back from class’ _ W says.

_ ‘your roommate home?’ _Steve boldly asks.

_ ‘nah, im in a single’ _

_ ‘oh same’ _ This is very unsexy. In an effort to turn things around, hopefully, Steve wracks his mind for something sexy to say. He types ‘ _ what are you wearing _ ’ before realizing he sounds like a phone sex customer (which, _ he knows _, okay, but he’s not going to think about that right now) and backspacing. Thankfully, W picks up the slack and sends him a photo. 

It’s a photo taken pretty close up, angled down at W’s lower half. It’s obviously taken with him laying down in his bed. The hideous dorm lights are off, and it looks like there are colored Christmas lights strung around the room. He has one hand resting on his crotch over a pair of joggers; the waistband of his underwear is visible and Steve can make out the Hugo Boss logo. Just. O_ f course _ that's the brand. He’s also sporting what Steve would call a pretty impressive bulge.

_ ‘look like a good enough time to u?’ _W asks, and Steve. Actually groans out loud. Fuck, the guy is clearly packing some serious heat. Steve wants to choke and die on it. Okay, that’s a little dramatic. 

_ ‘fuck, yeah’ _ Steve says in response, and reaches a hand down to his own cock to press the heel of his palm into it. He gets two hands back on his phone again and sends a message. 

_ ‘you touching yourself?’ _he asks, and W responds quickly.

_ ‘mhmm, u?’ _ and Steve sends back a quick, ‘ _ yeah,’ _ watching W type for a second. _ ‘u wanna show me?’ _ he asks, and Steve stumbles over himself trying to get his joggers down to take a photo, suddenly really eager to please W.

He takes a photo of his own cock through his underwear, hand loosely fisted around the base over the fabric to give W an idea of his size. Not that he’s a narcissist or anything. Not too much at least. 

_ ‘wow, ur big babe. too bad u wont get to use it, though, i wanna top u so bad’ _ W says and another shiver wracks Steve’s body, thinking about this guy holding him open and pounding him. Fuck. 

_ ‘bold of u to assume i bottom, but ill allow it.’ _Steve’s lazily jerking himself off at this point, rereading the words W just sent over and over and thinking about getting railed. He stops to type again.

_ ‘can i see it? if ur so intent on using ur cock to fuck me into oblivion i feel like i deserve to get a look at it’ _he says.

_ ‘oh you think you deserve it?’ _and then.

_ ‘you been a good boy?’ _W teases, Steve walked right into that one. He bites his lip and rubs his thumb over his slit on the upstroke. W sends a photo anyway. 

It’s the same angle as before, but this time the offending fabric from before is nowhere to be seen. And wow. If Steve’s going to get imaginarily fucked, he’s glad it’s by this guy. He’s not as long as Steve, but he’s thick, his foreskin stretching around the red and swollen head. He’s holding the base with thick fingers and a string of precum is dripping from the slit onto his stomach. Wow wow. Steve suddenly craves the taste. To top it all off, the guy has a tattoo low on one of his hipbones that was invisible in the last photo due to clothes. Steve turns his phone upside down briefly to see what it is, and he’s able to make out a small rose on it’s side, the stem pointing down toward his cock. Sweet. 

Steve licks his lips and pulls his hand off his dick long enough to type _ ‘fuck, i want u’ _ and then _ ‘wanna taste u W’ _ Putting his phone down on his stomach, Steve shuffles out of his underwear (it’s expensive, he’s not getting precum all over Calvins!) and spits on his right hand, bringing it down to jerk himself off again. From where his phone is perched on his stomach, he can see W send him another message.

_ ‘can u do something for me baby?’ _ and oh God. Of course Steve can. Anything. _ ‘want u to put two of ur pretty fingers in ur mouth and then tease ur hole w them’ _ Not a bad idea, by any means, so Steve obliges. Takes a close up photo of his tongue laving over his right pointer and middle fingers and sends it to W, trailing said fingers down to rub over his puckered hole. He bucks forward, practically doubling over with just the little bit of pressure and the very idea of rubbing his rough fingertips over his prostate. He groans a little, and picks up his phone with his left hand, angling it to take a photo of his thumb resting on his balls, his pointer and middle fingers pressing on his hole. Thank God for PopSockets. He sends it to W without a caption, and then types out _ ‘m close’ _

The other boy heart reacts the photo before he’s all like. _ ‘good boy, can u cum for me?’ _and. Sure. Steve certainly can. He puts his phone down on his chest again, using his dominant hand to push on his hole again, and licking his left hand to jerk off with. Thinking about W, what he looks like, what he’s said to him, Steve cums quickly. He rides out the orgasm for a few seconds and then picks up his phone, exhaling heavily and surveying the mess on his stomach and fist. He takes a quick picture of it, grabbing a cum towel (he knows, he knows, you don’t need to tell him it’s gross, but hey! It’s effective!) from his nightstand and wiping himself off, sending the photo to W.

_ ‘your turn babe’ _he says, before immediately regretting the message. It sounds less cute and more weird out of the heat of the moment. This guy isn’t Steve’s babe, he probably isn’t really even getting off. With the amount of times he gets messages like this on the daily? He’s probably just got photos ready to send at intervals. Once Steve’s head has gotten him sufficiently worked up over nothing, he checks his phone to see a photo from W. The guy’s got the phone angled up this time, his face just out of frame but a toned stomach in full view, covered with strands of cum. It streaks over the little rose tattoo and pools into the dips of W’s lower ab muscles and Steve wants to lick it out like a body shot. 

_ ‘hope u enjoyed urself, i certainly did’ _he says, and Steve snorts.

_ ‘ill be sure to rate u 5 stars on the uber app lol’ _ and sets his phone down, sitting up in bed feeling slightly gross. He stands and walks around in circles for a few seconds, pulling his boxer-briefs back up and shucking his joggers the rest of the way down his legs. He turns the TV back on, hitting play on _ Frasier, _ and climbing back into bed. He doesn’t check his phone for the rest of the night.

Actually, that’s a lie. He checks it to find that W has _ haha reacted _to his text, and he rolls his eyes and shoves his phone under his pillow. 

\--------------------------

Steve wakes the next morning to find that Netflix had long since stopped asking him if he was still there, and that he fell asleep with the TV on. He doesn’t have anything to be up for, so he lazes around in bed for awhile until he decides to check his emails out of boredom. Sifting through club newsletters and ads for movie nights, he sees an email from Canvas telling him that his most recent Speech Communication test was graded. His stomach lurches, that hadn’t been a good test, he was sure of it. Gingerly heading back to the home screen, Steve opens Canvas and waits for the grades tab to refresh, wincing at the big 27/50 staring back at him. _ Big _ yikes. But if there was one thing Steve’s dad taught him, it was how to kiss ass. Wait. Roll that back, Steve’s dad _ certainly _ didn’t teach him how to kiss ass. Not literally. You know what he means. 

He huffs, opening the Gmail app and drafting an email to his professor. _ Dear Professor Sherry, I wanted to touch base with you about blahblahblah... _ and soon he had a perfectly professional email to _ fucking Marc _ asking what he could do to get his grade up after that terrible test. It was the perfect balance of humble, yet willing to try. Steve’s practically on a high from all the networking he’s doing, and he decides to get sofritas _ and _ guac in his burrito bowl after lacrosse practice today. He’s earned it. 

  
Speaking of practice, he checks the clock to see that he’s got a few hours until he has to be in uniform and in the gym, so he goes on Twitter to waste a few minutes. Laying back in his bed, he turns onto his side and scrolls mindlessly for a while, exhaling a little harder than usual at a particularly fresh meme every once in a while. Then he sees one that would really knock the pants off of Jonathan, it’s this Onion article about--well, it’s kind of a _ you-had-to-be-there _ kind of thing. You wouldn’t get it. Anyway, he takes a screenshot and goes to send it to Jon, but the thing is about that. Is that. The last person Steve texted was W. And he accidentally sends it to him. Without realizing it. Until he’s already hit send. 

What the _ actual fuck. _ This is like sending memes to your drug dealer. This is worse than sending memes to your drug dealer. This is sending memes to your one-time sexting partner whose number you found on the wall of a lecture hall boy’s bathroom. To be specific. Steve cannot believe how much of a bumbling idiot he is. He wrestles with whether or not he should send a concession text about how that wasn’t meant for him. He decides on something short and sweet and sends it out quickly.

11:38 AM

_ sorry i didnt mean to send that to you, that was weird of me _

And he puts down his phone out of embarrassment. After taking a brief shame-nap, Steve rouses again to find it’s much closer to practice time. He heaves himself out of bed and rifles through his laundry basket to look for his practice jersey. He gives the maroon and gold garment a good spray-down with some room spray once he finds it (Hey! He doesn’t have all day here, he’s being resourceful.) and puts it on. Slinging a backpack full of cleats and stale Gatorade over one shoulder, he picks up his phone off his bed. He remembers what he did before his nap and grimaces. Dummy. He puts his phone in his practice bag without looking at it. 

Hustling along to the gym is brutal in the January Boston weather, but he powers through it and bursts through the locker room doors a few minutes before practice is set to start. He thwaps Tommy on the back with his stick. 

“Hey! Ow!” The aforementioned Tommy cries, crease in his forehead disappearing when he sees that it’s Steve. “Oh! Hey man, what were you up to yesterday? I feel like I haven’t seen you in years.” And. Steve rolls his eyes at that.

“Tommy, baby, I saw you no more than 24 hours ago. If you really missed me that bad, you should probably talk to somebody about it.” He says. “Sounds like symptoms of obsession.” Steve’s good at this, good at banter. Good at friends, thankfully. Since academics is apparently not his strong suit, and he isn’t exactly a god with a lax stick. 

“Oh, you’re talking symptoms now, huh? What’d you change your major to psych or something?” Tommy fires back, and Steve fake-laughs at him.

“Yeah, decided it would be more lucrative than Art History, robots can keep history records but people will be fucked up forever.” He jokes, and Tommy is quiet for a minute, almost pensive.

“Shit, never thought of it like that, I guess.” He says, closing his locker door solemnly. Steve does the same and then claps Tommy on the back.

“Don’t think too hard, you’ll hurt yourself.” He says on his way out of the locker room and into the indoor practice gym. 

Practice is alright, nothing to write home about. He throws some stuff, catches some stuff, breathes kind of heavy, etc. It goes by achingly slowly and he finds himself thanking his lucky stars when the coach blows a whistle to signal the end of the night. Heading back into the locker room he takes a brief shower, skipping the hair-wash step (gross, he knows, but he’s desperate to get out of here) and heading back into the locker area. He towels off and puts his pre-practice clothes back on, heading out into the blistering cold with Chipotle on the brain. He hops onto the D Line and goes two stops, leaning against a railing as the train starts and stops. 

Walking into Chipotle, Steve could swear, is like coming home. No, it’s better. The anticipation of sweet sweet protein and healthy fat is something that can’t be beat. He sidles up to the counter and orders his usual, sofritas bowl to go with brown rice, black beans, mild and corn salsa, and lettuce. Tonight, as promised, he also gets guacamole. 

Heading out the door with his bowl in hand, well, in bag, he walks back to the subway station and heads back the way he came to go sit in bed with his beloved feast. Checking his phone on the train he realizes that he has a text back from W. He’s ‘haha react’ed to the article and texted back,

4:55 PM

_ no worries lmao, it was funny _

And Steve is really grateful this guy is being so cool with Steve continuously making a fool of himself. Smiling a little, he responds

6:48 PM

_ i mean if you liked it, ive got more where that came from _

So sue him, he’s feeling flirty. Stepping off the train he books it back to his dorm and steps into his room. Lighting a candle (sofritas is a religious experience, okay?) he sets his burrito bowl on his bed and toes his shoes off as W texts him back. It’s another link, this one to a Reductress article. Steve _ stans _a feminist icon. Steve chuckles at the title and sifts through his folder of memes to find one suitable for W. 

They talk for a while, mostly exchanging memes, but as the night goes on and Steve eats his bowl, they start to talk about their days, asking how each other’s went. They share vague details and talk about classes and professors and sports. By the time he goes to bed, Steve thinks he’s made a friend in W, which was far more than he expected when he sent the text a few days ago.

\-----------------

The next morning, Steve wakes up without his alarm, to find he’s fallen asleep talking to W. After Steve didn’t respond to one of his texts, W responded an hour or so later, saying,

1:35 AM

_ i can imagine you fell asleep _

1:35 AM

_ sweet dreams princess _

and Steve smiles at that. Actually smiles. So dumb. He swipes down on his phone to check his other notifications and sees that he has an email from his professor, a response about the test he bombed. Sucking in a breath he checks the email.

_ Dear Mr. Harrington, _

_ I think the best course of action in this case would be to point you in the direction of a study buddy or tutor. I will allow you to retake the test by Thanksgiving break should you desire it, but only if you’ve met with one of my best students from last semester. _

Oh hell no. Steve doesn’t do tutors. He’s better than that. He’ll meet with the kid once, tops. Just so he can retake the test. But he isn’t a kid who _ gets tutored. _

_ His name is Billy Hargrove, you can find him on Facebook, I’m sure. I’ll loop him in on this response as well. _

And sure enough, cc’ed at the top of the email is [ william_hargrove@bostoncollege.edu ](mailto:william_hargrove@bostoncollege.edu). Fucking. Steve just cannot escape this asshole. He rolls his eyes.

_ Please let me know if you are interested. _

The next section of the email addresses Billy, so he skims it. Something something, best and brightest, something something non-tuition credit, something something graduating early. What a try-hard. He didn’t even know Billy was smart. Nevermind _ best and brightest _. Disregarding the email completely, he rolls his eyes and opens Facebook.

He searches Billy up and sends him a message.

_ hey you see Sherrys email? im not gonna make you really tutor me or anything, just meet with me once and ill take care of the rest _

**Sent at 9:34 AM**

Immediately after he sends it, he feels dumb as a box of rocks because, he could’ve just asked Billy to tell the professor he met with him. He doesn’t actually have to meet with Billy. But he’s not about to double-message the kid, Jesus. So he waits.

A few seconds later, the _ Active Now _ shows up beside his name and he reads the message. He types for a second, and Steve has his ringer on so he can hear the little bubble blip-blip-blip away as Billy presumably writes a novel on the other end. Only for him to actually send

_ whatever dude _

**Sent at 9:36 AM**

_ if you need help or whatever ill help you but if you wanted to hang out with me you couldve just said so _

**Sent at 9:36 AM**

And Steve almost really fully facepalms. Like it’s 2008 or something. He tries to recover.

_ i dont want to hang out with you. i want to pass speech comm. _

**Sent at 9:37 AM**

** _Read_ **

And Billy’s response is immediate.

_ whatever you say, pretty boy _

**Sent at 9:37 AM**

_ library tomorrow at 8? _

**Sent at 9:37 AM**

Steve balks.

_ 8 AM?? _

**Sent at 9:38 AM**

** _Read_ **

_ jesus no you cuck, 8pm. i work tomorrow _

**Sent at 9:38 AM**

And Steve just thumbs up’s the message and leaves it at that. This should certainly be weird. He doesn’t have too much time to think about it though, because his 9:40 alarm goes off, and he jumps.

It’s Saturday morning, what could he possibly have to do? Remembering that he has a laundry basket full of clothes under his bed, he groans and slides to the floor. If he doesn’t do it now, the washing machines are all going to be full by this evening, and Steve isn’t wearing his least favorite clothes to the ‘One Week Til Halloween’ party tonight a few suburbs over. He throws his organic laundry detergent and dryer sheets into the basket with his clothes and heads down to the laundry room with his backpack over his shoulder. 

He puts his clothes in like, four different washers and sits back while they hurgle around. He opens a textbook and puts it on his lap, only to slide his copy of _ Call Me By Your Name _ inside it and start reading that instead. He doesn’t want people to get the wrong idea (the right idea, really, but touche) about him! College is cutthroat! Flipping past the signed title page, he heads to his bookmarked page and resumes reading about it being warm outside and Elio being a little bitch about getting what he so clearly wants. 

The washing machines beep 27 minutes later and he switches his clothes out into the dryers. He settles back down and continues reading (he’s just gotten to the peach scene, it’s very, uh, intellectually stimulating stuff). An hour passes, and he has to do his least favorite part about laundry: the folding. 

He heads back to his room with his folded clothes after 20 minutes and lots of griping and sighing. He passes the time with some actual homework until a few hours later when his suitemate comes into his room and tells him they’re gonna leave for the party in an hour or so. Steve, prepared for this, puts on his lucky Patagonia long-sleeve and some dark wash jeans. Spraying himself with some of his best cologne, he runs a hand through his hair and then, as an afterthought, hits it with some dry shampoo. Tearing himself away from the mirror, he goes out to meet his suitemates.

The party is kicking into gear when they arrive, and some guy he doesn’t know greets him and his suitemates when they arrive. He seems to know one of them and they banter a bit before he lets them all in so the music can’t be heard from the hallway. 

Stepping into the party room, he surveys the table of cheap, shitty alcohol. Vodka, mostly, with a few miscellaneous bottles and a sign that says “beer and ice in fridge.” He takes the sign up on its offer and grabs a Natty Light out of the fridge. Sipping, he looks around the room and starts towards a group of girls huddled in one of the corners of the room. 

“Hi!” He shouts over the pulsing of 3OH!3’s “DONTTRUSTME.” The girls all smile at him and he grins back at them. 

Half an hour later and he’s got one of the girls against the wall talking in his ear about _ something something something _, one of her major classes that she isn’t enjoying or some bullshit. He’s nodding along and reacting the best he can with the music loudly playing from speakers behind him. She’s cute, real cute. Shorter than him by half a foot at least, she’s got long dark hair and brown eyes. He’s a little tipsy at this point, having made both of them mixed drinks a few minutes ago, so his mind doesn’t prohibit him from saying,

“What was your name again?” loudly into her ear.

“Abigail!” She shouts, and he nods. He’s not gonna remember that in an hour. He’s judging his closeness to her carefully, and her body language. Her body is angled towards his, that’s a good sign. She’s smiling at him and he’s smiling back. He leans in, making sure she can smell his cologne on his neck.

“Wanna get outta here, Abigail?” He asks suavely, leaning back to see her bite her lip. Something about that tells Steve he’s striking out.

“I, I would, but. I’m here with my roommates and, I can’t really leave them here. I’m sorry, Steve. Really.” She puts her hand on his chest, and he nods. 

“No worries!” He sort of feels like he should say sorry, for something? But he recovers best he can and gives her a megawatt smile. Dejected, he heads away under the guise of getting a fresh drink or something, and finds his suitemate in the crowd. He motions that he’s gonna go, not trying to hang around and pick up another girl in front of the one he was just talking to, and takes another shot before starting to find his way back to his building. 

He stumbles home in the cold, tapping into his building and stripping his clothes off as soon as the suite door closes behind him. He walks to his room unbuttoning his jeans and climbs onto his bed in his underwear. He was clearly not expecting to strike out tonight, so what now?

A light bulb goes off in his head, and he pulls out his phone. Drunkenly, he types a message to W. 

11:48 PM

_ wyd? _

The response is almost immediate, and he thanks God for it.

11:49 PM

_ nothing dude, u? _

Steve soars. Yes. He lays back onto his pillows and palms himself for a minute, getting hard in his boxer-briefs. And they’re nice ones too! He really meant it, he didn’t mean to strike out tonight. 

Arching his hips to show off his hipbones, he snaps a picture to send to W. He types the caption _ all dressed up with nowhere to go _ before realizing that’s a stupid caption and deleting it. He also realizes he shouldn’t send and unsolicited photo of his junk, so he saves the pic for later and just sends

11:49 PM

_ was just thinking about u _

11:50 PM

_ oh u were, were you? _

11:50 PM

_ wanna prove that? _

And this, Steve can tell, is an invitation for him to send the aforementioned photo of his junk. So he does. And W responds quickly.

11:51 PM

_ i guess u were, princess _

And Steve _ shouldn’t _ be into that but, he’ll say it, it’s kinda hot. His dick kicks in his palm and he. You get the point.

\-----------------

He wakes up around noon the next day, and wastes the day in bed, it’s Sunday after all. He gets up a few times to get food or go to the bathroom, but he lies around until it’s time to go meet Billy in the library. Even then he puts it off a little, waiting until like the last possible moment to leave. Trudging into the library he looks around to find Hargrove already at a table with all of his stuff spread out. He looks at his phone briefly, wondering if all his procrastinating had made him late, but no. Billy’s just early. Weird-ass kid. He saunters up to him and puts his bag down on the ground next to the chair opposite him. He sits, and Hargrove looks up.

“Hey,” he says, looking back down to his work. “Gimme one second.” He punches away at a graphing calculator for a few seconds, using some functions Steve’s never even seen, and writing down the resulting number. Then he sighs and looks up.

“Sorry, calc.” He says, and Steve realizes he doesn’t know what the other boy’s major is. He’s not about to ask, because whatever it is he’s using calculus for is probably a lot more serious than _ Art History _, and he doesn’t want to be embarrassed. He just gives a white-people smile with no teeth and shrugs.

“No worries dude.” He answers. 

“So, you needed help with something?” Hargrove asks, and Steve clears his throat.

“Uh,” he starts, not sure how to explain his scheme. “I failed a Speech Comm test and Professor Sherry wants me to meet with a tutor before I retake it. I don’t need you to actually tutor me or anything, I don’t want to waste both of our time, but I just need you to sign off on having met with me so I can take the test over.” He finishes and Hargrove nods, leaning back in his chair. He’s wearing another sweatshirt, this one missing the sleeves. His arms bulge when he crosses them. Dickhead.

“What’d you get the first time?” He asks and Steve scrubs a hand over his face.

“27…” and Billy’s eyebrows shoot up. 

“27?!” He says, and Steve shushes him.

“Out of 50!” He justifies but Hargrove won’t have it.

“Harrington, amigo, I feel like, with that grade, it’d be in your best interest if I really did tutor you.” He says, his eyebrows knitting together with a kind of ‘eek’ expression on his face.

“Listen, I’m not stupid, it’s just...The test was bullshit. It’s bullshit. I-” He starts, but Billy cuts him off.

“Hey, man, I didn’t say you were stupid. I know you’re not. I’m saying, I want you to prove to Sherry that you’re not. I’m saying, let me help you, and it’ll all go smoother for everyone involved.” He says, and Steve can’t help but snort.

“That’s what she said.” He says and Hargrove rolls his eyes.

“Maybe I take back what I said about you being stupid.” He says, but he has a smile in his eyes. Steve does too. This is fun, maybe they can be friends.

“Hey!” Steve squeaked. “I resent that.” Billy looks at him for a second, and then rolls his eyes again, a smirk pulling on his lips and revealing his bright white teeth. His canines remind Steve of a shark, but somehow he can tell there isn’t any blood in the water. Billy gestures to him then.

“Well?” and Steve doesn’t know what to do until. “Get the fuckin’ book out!” He says. 

Steve comes home from studying with Hargrove with a smile on his face, and a time for another meeting next week. He’s really hoping to show Sherry who’s boss on this test, and pass this class and never look back. Stupid gen-eds. 

The week passes with Steve actually looking forward to meeting back up with Hargrove. They’ve messaged back and forth a little bit about class-related things, and he’s feeling good about his ability to turn his grade around. He keeps talking to W, as well, over the course of the week. Between the phone sex and memes, Steve’s having a lot of fun with him. Overall the week goes very well, it appears that things are just coming up Steve. 

The following Friday night, Steve walks into the library practically whistling dixie on his way to meet Hargrove. He’s feeling productive and ready to work, but when he approaches Billy it looks like he’s the only one who’s ready.

The other boy is sitting at a library table with his head in his hands, hair tumbling around his shoulders in unkempt curls. He looks like he’s had a seriously bad day.

“Hargrove?” he asks as he walks toward the table. “Billy?” He tries again. There are papers spread out around the boy like last week, but he seems much less capable of handling them today. He looks up at Steve when he says his first name, and Steve can see his eyes are a little glassy, and not in the high kind of way. He looks overwhelmed, and Steve sits, compelled to help. 

“What’s eating you, man?” He asks, and Hargrove sniffs and rolls his eyes. 

“Nothing, let’s just get started, alright?” He shuts Steve down. But Steve knows a breakdown when he sees one. This is about to be a bad one if he doesn’t intervene.

“We can get started after you tell me what the problem is. If you can get through talking about it without crying, we’ll start working. Deal?” He asks, and Hargrove rolls his eyes again. The kid does it so much Steve is worried about his eyes rolling right out of his head. He takes a big breath.

“One of my professors decided that she was going to make the submission deadline for our final project proposal 5PM without telling anyone in class, and she put it on the Canvas page but I never got the notification, and I finished the proposal last night because of _ course _ I did, but I wanted to put some fresh eyes on it today, and when I went to go submit it after proofreading it, the submissions were closed, and I saw the notification that said she wasn’t accepting late submissions and she wasn’t going to accept emails on the subject and--” He takes a shaky breath and his eyes start to water. Steve interrupts him.

“Alright, tough guy. Get your books together, we’re not studying tonight.” He says, and starts shuffling Billy’s papers together as the other boy sits, dumbfounded.

  
“Where are we gonna go instead?” He asks.

“Still got that shitty old car?” Steve jabs lightly. Billy sniffs.

“S’not shitty, but yeah.” He says, cocking his head in confusion. Steve reaches forward and slaps him on the shoulder.

“Then we’re going on a burn cruise, my guy.” 

Hargrove is hesitant to let Steve drive his car, but since Steve didn’t bring one of his own and this is about Billy’s relaxation, Steve insists. 

In the parking lot, Steve pokes at Billy until he hands him his keys, against his better judgement. Steve slides onto the leather interior of his old Camaro, slamming the door behind him. Hargrove grimaces.

“Hey, don’t slam the doors like that, she’s sensitive.” He says, quietly. He touches the roof gently, as if in apology, and then gets in the passenger’s seat next to Steve.

“S’weird, sitting in this side. I never sit in this side of my own car.” Hargrove muses, still quiet. Steve’s afraid he’s going to break him. 

“How’s it feel sitting in the hookup seat?” He tries for it to be a joke, but it’s not very funny, because then he starts thinking about Hargrove hooking up in this car, Hargrove kneeling in the footwell...ahem, _ exercising his tongue muscles _, while some sorority girl tugs his curls. Starts thinking about that one gif of Dean from the Impala sex scene in the fourth season of Supernatural. The one of his back muscles? You know what he’s talking about. But anyway, his mind is wandering because Hargrove is saying something back that he has to really think to hear.

  
“I don’t have sex in this car. Jesus, what’s the matter with you? This was my mom’s car. My _ dead _ mom’s car, you fuck.” And he seems deadly serious. And Steve starts to flounder and sputter. Until Hargrove cracks a smile. 

“I’m messing with you, dude.” And he claps a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve can almost start breathing again. “I don’t hook up in the passenger’s seat though, you’re in the, uh, _ hot seat _ , amigo.” He finishes, and _ hot seat _ it certainly is because with that thought, all of a sudden, Steve can feel the leather burning his skin through his clothes, even though it’s nighttime in winter in Boston.

“Jesus dude, ew. There’s the Hargrove I know.” He says, when his traitorous brain is thinking, _ Show me. Show me what you do to those sorority girls in this seat. I dare you. _

Steve starts the car with swift movements and smiles as it hums around him. He taps the steering wheel and shifts the gear to Drive. Just as he starts to pull away, though, Hargrove starts back on his bullshit about his assignment.

“Maybe I should just--” But Steve cuts him off. 

“Hargrove, what have you done already to fix the situation?” Steve drawls. 

“Well, I sent her an email but--” He’s cut off again as Steve reasons with him.

“So there isn’t anything else you can do. It’s 8pm, she’s already left campus for the day. She’ll get back to you in the morning. There’s no sense worrying about it now, man.” And Hargrove has to know he’s right, because he just huffs and slumps down in his seat. “Let’s just smoke and worry about it tomorrow.” 

And they do. Steve pulls over into a parking lot for the reservoir near campus and pulls a bowl and a bag out of his backpack. Billy takes a break from queueing songs to roll his eyes.

“You carry that shit around with you everywhere? That’s careless as fuck, dude.” He says. But Steve shrugs. 

“You’re _ complaining _ that I brought weed for you to smoke for free? That’s ungrateful as fuck, dude.” He mimics Billy. 

“Touché. Thanks, I guess.” Billy says, and Steve smiles, handing him a packed bowl. 

“You’re welcome. Now forget about that fucking professor and let’s get blazed.” 

\------------------

3:56PM

_ you going to megan’s halloween party?? _

And yeah, Steve worries over that text from W for a long time. Does he tell him he’s going? What if he’s also going? What if he wants to meet up? What if he recognizes Steve there? What if he’s overthinking this whole thing and it doesn’t matter at all?

He waits just about as long as socially acceptable before responding.

4:28PM

_ was thinking about it, why? u? _

And W responds right away. 

4:29PM

_ was thinking about it. ive got a great costume planned :P _

4:30PM

_ you should come! itll be fun _

And Steve wants to make sure they’re on the same page about this, so he goes--

4:31PM

_ we aren’t going to have some sort of cinderella story moment here where we both take off our masks and fall in love right? _

He hopes that doesn’t sound too harsh, because he likes W a lot, but he’s not there yet. He sends a ‘XD’ emoji to make sure the one is portrayed properly. God, texting is hard.

W is quiet for a few minutes and Steve worries he’s ruined all of this. But then he hits Steve back with--

4:35PM

_ nah princess, the mask stays on _

4:36PM

_ for now _

Steve thought they were joking about the masks, but honestly that’s kind of a good idea. He opens his laptop and does some quick googling. 

Two days later Steve is signing for an Amazon Prime package and two days after that, he’s standing in a full-length mirror in a sexy nurse costume from Amazon. He’s talking like Nurse From That Blink-182 Album Cover sexy nurse. He’s got on red sneakers, a low-cut white nurse’s dress with red crosses on the lapels, a similarly marked hat, and the pièce de résistance, a white surgical mask with a red cross in the center. If W was going for masks, Steve thinks he pretty much nailed this one. On his way to the party, he texts W.

9:38PM

_ can i have a hint at your costume? just a hint _

W is quiet, presumably getting ready, and Steve puts his phone in his pocket as he approaches the party with a group of his peers all in assorted costume garb. 

His confidence in his masculinity is apparently doing wonders for his social life, as girls keep coming up to him to compliment his outfit. 

  
He gets inside and makes himself a drink, weaving through lower-back touches and shoulder slaps from various people he doesn’t know. Pouring a drink, he picks a corner and stands in it, waiting for W but unwilling to admit it.

Peering around in the crowd of kids, Steve sees many with masks on, any that _ could _ be his Prince Charming. He checks his phone again and almost chokes on his cheap vodka and Gatorade. 

10:05PM

_ ill *swing by* eventually, then youll see _

And Steve is just starting to wonder what that means when a boy in a full Spider-Man costume walks in. And Steve is pretty sure that’s him. So sure, in fact, that he texts him back.

10:35PM

_ don’t get your *webs* in a tangle, im sure ill find you :P _

And after he loses sight of Spidey, W responds with a spider emoji, so Steve knows he’s got it. Then he begs for his own hint.

10:40PM  
_ and what should i look for when looking for you? _

And Steve flounders in his corner for a minute before coming up with something dumb.

10:45PM

_ lets just say that if you get too drunk tonight, i can *nurse* you back to health _

At that, W looks around the room and spots Steve in the corner. He jerks his head up in greeting, and Steve reckons this would be a lot easier if he could see his facial expressions, although that’s kind of the whole point, isn’t it?

And as Steve is thinking this, W is getting closer and. Oh God, he’s really closing in now. He’s directly in front of Steve now, and Steve is just about losing it. He can’t breathe. He’s breathing, but he can’t breathe. 

W reaches up to his face and pulls his Spider-mask up just enough that his lips are visible.

“Hi.” He says, and Steve swoons. He puts his hand in front of his mouth, like a proper lady, and replies.

“Hi!” He hopes W can hear him over the noise of the party and also through the mask, and by the smile he gets in return he guesses he can. W leans in to Steve’s ear and Steve can feel his hot breath when he croons,

“Was going to hit the bathroom. Do you want to come?” And. God. Yes. Steve wants to come to the bathroom more than he wants his next breath. Pun fully intended. He bites back a full-out moan and manages to nod. W grabs him by the hand and whisks him off toward the bathroom. 

Admittedly, the small space is kind of terrible, but with the lights mostly off Steve can almost pretend it’s like a fairytale. If he closes his eyes, he can almost ignore how his shoes _ stick _ to the floor just a little. 

Trying to forget that many frat boys have emptied their bladders in this very room becomes a little easier when W, mask still lifted, starts to mouth at Steve’s neck. He sucks at the skin with fervor, and Steve is suddenly grateful he keeps a spoon in the freezer for emergency hickey purposes; he’s gonna need it when he gets home. 

Backing him against the door they just closed and locked, W trails his face up and noses at Steve’s mask. Momentary panic shoots through Steve at the motion; he thought they were doing anonymity? There’s no way he’s taking this mask off. Only. He doesn’t have to, because just as quickly as he came up, W plants a chaste smooch on Steve’s lips through the mask and dips back down to bite at his collarbone. 

W’s hands skirt around the bottom of Steve’s dress and if Steve were any semblance of a modest lady he’d have batted W’s big, warm hands away. Really though, he gives in to his natural-born whore nature and pushes into the touch. The red and blue morphsuit doesn’t do much to stifle W’s natural body heat, and Steve can feel his thighs practically trembling as W takes hold of either one, gently pulling them apart, suggesting without words. Widening their stance so he can move between them. 

He pulls on the back of Steve’s left knee and it willingly goes with him, coming up to rest in his grip near his hips. This new angle leaves Steve’s underwear (white boxer-briefs because duh, costume material isn’t exactly thick) dangerously exposed. And by dangerously, he means deliciously. 

He’s starting to chub up, and his dick kicks longingly at the idea of being manhandled by W. The party noise just behind the door dulls in comparison to their heavy breathing, and even that fades away when W grinds forward into Steve’s hips and makes the softest, most precious noise he’s ever heard. He’d rip his mask off now if it gave him easier access to that sound again. 

Steve takes action, wrapping his thigh around W’s waist and pulling him further into his space. Steve throws his arms, previously hanging limply at his sides, around W’s neck and uses the leverage to push his own hips into the other boy’s. W’s hands scramble at his hips and they start up a rhythm and God. That’s good. 

If grinding to completion in a dorm bathroom in Halloween costumes is how the night is fated to go, who is Steve to interrupt fate? 

“Babe…” W’s voice is gravely and quiet in Steve’s ear, and he exhales a jittery breath in response as W trails a hand over the front of Steve’s underwear in question. Taking matters into his own hands, Steve grabs W’s hand in his and reaches them both down the front of his boxers, hissing as W takes his cock into his hand. 

“Suit…” he mumbles into Steve’s neck. 

“Hmm?” Steve hums. W shifts.

“Suit. Zipper for the suit. In the back.” And Steve can barely think about anything with the way W is slowly jerking him off, but he manages to trail a hand to the back of W’s neck and find the zipper that releases him from the morphsuit. He claws the sides away until W’s smooth, tan skin is revealed to him in all its glory. The suit falls to his waist as Steve brushes a hand down his toned stomach. 

Going for the glory, Steve pushes the suit down further and grasps at W’s cock through his underwear. Mask still on, it should look ridiculous, but Steve has bigger fish to fry at the moment than ridiculous-looking Spider-Men. 

And by that, he means getting W’s underwear around his thighs so he can get a look in person at the cock that’s been haunting his wet dreams. It’s beautiful, truly, and iPhone photos don’t do it justice. He reaches both hands towards it needily, running his hands all over W’s hips. He finds the rose tattoo on his hip and presses a thumb into it. 

W takes the lead, pulling out Steve’s cock and gripping it together with his, jerking them both off at the same time. Steve admits, it’s not the most intimate or romantic way to do this, but W’s getting the job done and Steve can’t fault a guy for being effective. Plus, he’s damn good at it. 

The fire starts deep in Steve’s churning stomach and he opens and closes his mouth behind his mask, no sound comes out. He looks down at their cocks in W’s big fist, sticky with precum and spit and. When did W spit on his hand? Steve’s going insane here. Regardless, his fist is wet with it and it’s driving Steve over the edge.

W strokes him through his orgasm, heading towards his not long after as Steve’s cock drools hot cum over his own. 

They take a minute to catch their breath, but then someone is knocking on the bathroom door harshly and. Hello? Rude. W grins and shakes his head, reaching toward the sink to wipe their combined mess on a hand towel while Steve tucks himself back into his underwear. So what if they ruined a towel in the worst way possible? This isn’t their bathroom. 

W pulls his mask back down over his face and kisses Steve through both their masks one more time before getting back into his suit and turning so Steve can zip it up for him. They open the door as whoever’s outside starts to harshly rap at the wood door again, and they seem startled as Spider-Man and a sexy nurse stumble out of the bathroom together. Steve takes a moment to watch with a hidden grin as the puzzled partygoer stumbles his own way into the bathroom, and when he looks back, W is gone, faded back into the crowd. 

  
And if Steve scrambles home and out of his costume to jerk off again before bed, no one has to know. He’s in his sexual prime, sue him. 

\--------------------

Waking up the next morning, Steve nearly has a yard sale when he tries to get out of bed and trips over the remains of his dress and hat on the floor. But the night had been nothing but worth it. And he floats on that high all weekend until it’s Monday again, and he has another study session planned with Billy. 

Rolling up to the library, Steve is dragging his feet. He doesn’t want to_ study _. He’s ready as he’ll ever be for this test and that’s all there is to it. Sure, Billy has been helpful, but Steve is more interested in the weird but charming friendship they’ve been working towards during these sessions.

When he swaggers up to where Billy is sitting and slams his hands down on the table, Billy looks up at him inquisitively.

“I don’t wanna study. Burn cruise?” He asks, hopeful grin splitting his face in half. Billy rolls his eyes at him.

“You never wanna study, loser. We can burn cruise after.” He replies, and Steve will honestly take that.

“So, half an hour of studying, and then we split?” Steve bargains, and Billy snorts.

“Try an _ hour _ and a half,” he starts, and Steve is groaning before he even finishes getting the words out. “An hour, if you’re good.” and he. Winks. And Steve’s not gonna lie here, because this is all happening inside his head so who is here to judge, but. It was kinda hot. Honestly. It’s...He’s...He’s a hormonal 20something okay! He can find things hot. If he sometimes wants Billy to rip him limb-from-limb that’s fine, alright?

An hour later (see, Steve can be a good boy, if he wants to) they head out to Billy’s car and Billy drives this time. They make their way to the reservoir and Steve starts to pack a bowl. 

  
Once their conversation has lulled and they’re both a few hits deep, something in Steve’s head reminds him that Billy is sitting in the hookup seat this time. Looking over at the other boy as he watches the water, Steve follows the profile of his face with his eyes. Billy’s Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows and Steve watches it go, enraptured. 

He fights the urge to swing a leg over Billy’s lap and ride him into the sunset because, _ wow _, way to ruin a friendship. Even if he does think the guy is really hot. Hotter than the sun in the south of Spain, as Sean Kingston once said. 

Steve’s mind is full of cotton. And his filter must really be bad. Because he can see his hand lifting up from his lap to reach over towards Billy in what seems like slow motion. He desperately tries to send the message to his hand that this is _ not _ cool, but before it can get there, he’s reaching out and. Fucking. _ Caressing _ Billy’s Adam’s apple. Like they’re lovers or something. Anything other than literally just friends which is what they are. 

Confusion crosses over Billy’s features, and he turns his head to face Steve. Oh jeez. Oh God. Oh fuck. Why did he do that? He can’t believe he did that. Before he can snatch his hand away, Billy is quicker and grabs it in his own hands. He doesn’t look away from Steve’s face while he pulls his hand to frame his cheek. Steve lets his fingertips unfurl to hug the curves of Billy’s sharp cheekbones and stubbly jawline. 

And Steve’s body takes that as the go-ahead to end all go-aheads and--and he’ll never forgive himself for this-- he turns his body and pushes forward and literally _ kisses _ Billy. Just fucking. Plants one on him. He’s got his right hand resting on Billy’s cheek, and the left holding himself up on the seat behind Billy and he just. Kisses him. God, _ what? _

And it’s all fine and good, great even, for a half-second until he and Billy seem to realize what they’re doing at the same time. And he pulls away at the same moment that Billy puts a hand to his shoulder and starts to gently push him away. If he squints, he can almost pretend he didn’t notice it, and save himself from that world of hurt. Almost. 

They sit in silence for a few seconds after Steve slumps back onto his side of the car. 

“M’sorry.” Steve says, and Billy says nothing.

“I didn’t--” He tries again after a few seconds, but he’s cut off. 

“No, it’s…” He shrugs. And Steve takes that as a “It’s fine, man, I can see how you could read that wrong, it’s my fault, no hard feelings, have a nice life,” because how else was he supposed to take it? Right? _ Right? _ He’s not crazy.

After a while, Billy puts the car back into gear and starts to drive away from the reservoir. As they leave, Steve can see their friendship getting smaller and smaller in the distance like the ducks in the water. He drops Steve off at his dorm building without a word, and Steve gets out after another quick, _ “Sorry.” _ He doesn’t stay to hear what Billy’s going to say back.

\------------------

What’s weird is that he expected the radio silence from Billy, but something about the way his conversations with W have been going makes it seem like there’s something _ he’s _ upset with Steve about too. 

A few days pass with nothing from Billy and one-word answers from W, and Steve is going out of his mind with all the feelings he’s feeling. It’s almost Thanksgiving break now, and Steve is staring down the barrel of the big test he has to retake before he can make it to the sweet sweet relief of carbs and naps and retail therapy and football games and no boys. 

He shlumps into the room to take his test a few days before break, and he’s almost upset at how well he seems to be doing. Every answer he knows correctly is another answer that Billy helped him memorize with some dumb trick or another. He feels awful. 

Finishing up the exam and checking it quickly to make sure he answered every question, Steve decides that he needs a coffee. He deserves it. He passes the papers to the professor who gives him a smile and a thumbs up, sensing his misery, and lets him leave. 

When he steps outside, the autumn weather hits Steve full-force. And not the good kind of autumn either, not like taking a ride through the center of town to look at the leaves change, drinking cocoa with your family kind of autumn. This is like, driving through the center of town after a hurricane to see whose houses were destroyed by fallen trees kind of autumn. It’s gross and wet and mirrors what Steve feels inside. 

He walks to Starbucks and when he opens the door, he’s met by the cheery scent of pumpkin spice. It’s almost enough to perk him up, but not quite. He gets in line, orders the first _ white-chocolate mocha peppermint pumpkin whatever the fuck _he sees on the menu, and pays. Waiting for his drink, he walks a circle around the coffee shop looking for a table. Near the back, he sees one of his friends from work cramming for her own midterms, papers and laptop sprawled out in front of her. 

“Hey, Robin.” Steve mopes, and the aforementioned girl looks up.

“Hey, man, what’s up? You seem kind of...deflated.” And bless her, she could see right through him. Steve sighs.

“Is it that obvious?” He asks her, and she gives a sad smile. 

“It’s just the tiniest bit pathetic. Wanna sit?” She offers the chair across from her. 

“Sure. S’long as you don’t mind listening to my tales of woe.” He warns, and she shrugs, closing the textbook in front of her. 

“Course not, it’ll give me a welcome break from TH204: Dress Codes In American Theatre.” She looks up at him.

“Gimme one second to get my drink, I’ll be right over.”   
  


Steve waits by the counter for his drink to be ready and then walks it back to Robin’s table. He sits, situates himself, and then takes a sip, immediately recoiling at the taste. 

He dramatically puts his head down on the table and sighs.

“Steve? You OD over there?” Robin asks him, and he groans in response.

“No, I just…” He looks up at her helplessly. “S’gross.” He pouts more intensely now, having just about the worst day, and rests his head on his folded arms on the tabletop. 

“Alright, droopy, what’s really the matter?” She asks, and the flood gates open. Steve doesn’t _ literally _ cry, but he’s almost there. He tells her all about Billy, and what he did to ruin it.

“And, and--I just..._ kissed him _ . Like I thought _ that _would be a good idea. And now I ruined the whole fucking thing like the life-ruiner that I am. Just ruining my life. All the time, always. Fucking. Can’t believe myself. He won’t even talk to me, Christ.” Steve says, throwing his hands up in the air. 

  
“Have you texted him?” She asks and. And. 

“No? No.” He says unsurely, then again with more confidence.

“Steve.” She says, deadpan. “I literally can’t believe you.” 

“No, I just!” He sighs again. “I’m not done. There’s more.” He recounts all of the exploits that he and W had too, glossing over some--okay, a lot--of the horny details. And how he doesn’t know why W is being so short with him, but it must’ve been something he did, and now he’s ruined both of the good things he had going for him, and he’s destined to die alone. This is all Nancy’s fault.

“Nancy’s fault? How is this Nancy’s fault?” Robin asks, confused.

“Well, I _ might _ have found his number written...in a bathroom stall.” Steve says slowly.

“You _ what _ ? _ Where _?” She slams her hands down on the table, way more invested all of a sudden.

“In a lecture hall! Not just...in a bar or something. Nancy told me to text him.” And Robin shakes her head.

“Oh, Stevie. That one might be on you, buddy. That’s...not your best work, I will say.” She says, the smile on her face getting bigger with each word.

“Stop. Don’t make fun of me! Stop!” Steve counters, starting to smile too as she does. Steve gets a notification, and he stops to check his phone briefly, flipping it over. 

Seeing that it’s from his grading app, he opens his phone and checks it to see that his makeup-test has been graded. It’s. He actually did...kind of well? He got a 94 this time. He’s _ got _ to show this to--Oh. _ Oh. _ Ow. 

Now that’s bittersweet. 

“What?” Robin says, noticing his face get sour again.

“Nothing. Just...s’nothing.” 

\------------------------

Thanksgiving break moves slowly, much to Steve’s delight. The longer he sits on the couch watching football with minute interest, the more time he has to put off worrying about what’s going to happen when he gets back to school. He still hasn’t heart from Billy or W, and as much as he’s disappointed, he’s trying to numb it out as best he can with leftovers or running or whatever else there is to do while he’s in _ fucking Hawkins. _

The Saturday after Black Friday, Steve’s lounging around the house in joggers and an old high school drama club t-shirt (he was on the _ crew _, okay? It’s not that embarrassing if you’re only on the crew.) while his parents get ready to go out to a business dinner when there’s a knock at the door. His mom answers it. 

He can hear the sounds of vague talking, before his mother calls back into the house,

“Steven, _ cucciolo, _ it’s for you!” She calls, and Steve heaves a sigh before getting up and taking the long way through the front room to the door. He stops by the window and he almost chokes at what waits for him in the driveway. 

Billy’s fucking car. The fucking car that he fucking kissed him in and he fucking. Y’know. You were there.

He stands stock-still for a moment until his mother calls him again.

“_ Patatino! _Door!” She says, and he snaps out of his spiral. 

“_ Si, mama. _I hear you.” He says, padding his feet through the front room to what he can be sure is going to be his doom. 

Sure enough, when he makes it to the doorway where his mother stands, Billy is standing out on his front porch. God help Steve. 

He sighs. He seems to be doing a lot of sighing these days. That’s Billy’s fault. He steels his features. 

“What are you doing here?” He asks, as his mother walks back into the house. Evidently, not too far back into the house to hear him greet a _ guest _so poorly.

“_Hey!_ _Sei impazzito?! _Do not talk to a guest like that!” She smacks him in the back of the head gently and then continues back into the house. Billy cracks a smile. Jerk.

“Hey.” The jerk speaks. Steve waits, stares him down.

“I wanted to talk. To you.” He continues. Steve nods. 

“Let’s go out back.” Steve says, moving aside so Billy can follow him into the house. He shuts the door behind his _ guest _ and leads Billy through the living room and the kitchen and the dining room to the back sliding door. He opens it and gestures for Billy to go outside first. He considers locking him out there in his backyard ‘til the end of time. But he follows him out instead. 

Steve leads them to some deck furniture that’s still out despite the chilly weather, and the two boys sit. Billy clears his throat. 

“I...um...I wanted to say I’m sorry. For how I reacted to...when you...y’know.” He says, and Steve can tell he’s really trying and_ really _ bad with feelings, but he just can’t shake the sourness as he sasses him back.

“Oh, no I’m not actually sure I do know what you mean. What are you sorry for?” He asks snarkily and for a half-second he sees a flash of the Billy he knew in high school, the Billy he thought was still around when he first got to school, the scary Billy. 

  
Just as quick as it’s there, though, it’s gone, and Billy patiently tries again.

“I’m sorry that I went silent on you after...we kissed. I wasn’t...entirely expecting that outcome, and I’m sorry that I freaked out.” He says, looking down at his hands. “I just wasn’t expecting you to actually do that. Not that I...didn’t...want you to.” And Steve stalls at that. He wanted...him to kiss him? 

“Wait, you...what?” He blanches, unable to comprehend.

“I. I wanted you to kiss me. I was the one who instigated that, I put your hand on my face, man. I’m just...really bad with feelings.” Billy says quickly, trying to get everything out before he presumably changes his mind about sharing. 

“Really?” Steve asks. Billy nods. They’re quiet for a few seconds before Billy starts talking again.

“I also wanted to--” He’s about to say something else but Steve’s mom opens the sliding door abruptly.

“_ Tesoro! _Your father and I are leaving.” She says, leaning out the doorway to catch Steve’s eyes. 

“Okay, _ mama. _” He says, and she’s gone just as quickly. 

“What were you gonna say?” Steve asks, heart hammering away in his chest.

“What? Oh. Nothing. Just. Do you...accept my apology?” He asks. He has the _ audacity _ to ask. Of fucking. Of course Steve’s going to accept his apology, he guesses. 

“Hhhhh, I guess so.” Steve huffs overdramatically, rolling his eyes playfully and reaching out for Billy’s face anew. His hand touches the same cheekbone it did a few weeks ago, and this time, Billy is the one to lean in and kiss Steve. And he’s kissing Steve. And he’s. _ Kissing. Steve _. 

Gah, he can’t believe it. Steve’s in his backyard, kissing Billy Hargrove. Wow. Who’da thunk it.

They pull back a little and rest their foreheads together. 

“So how’d you do on the makeup test?” Billy asks, and Steve bites his bottom lip. Not his own lip, Billy’s lip. You know what he means. 

“94.” He whispers sensually. Billy groans.

“That’s the hottest number you’ve ever said to me. So proud of you.” He says, reaching out to run a hand through Steve’s hair. If it were anyone else, he would’ve lost it. But it’s _ Billy _. So he can’t resist preening at the touch.

“I think…” And he pauses while Billy scratches at his scalp with his dull nails.

“What’dya think, baby?” He eggs Steve on.

“Mmm, think...I deserve to be rewarded. For doing so well.” He finishes, and Billy removes his hand from Steve’s hair and laughs a little.

“What, do you want a medal?” He asks, and Steve hits him gently. “If anything, I think _ I’m _the one who deserves a reward, tutoring you was the hardest job I’ve ever had to do!” He says, and Steve frowns.

“I’ll show you a _ hard job _, alright.” He huffs, and Billy just laughs harder at his joke. Steve looks over at the hot tub. 

“Anyway, I think I found something that can be a reward for both of us for all of our hard work.” Steve says, and Billy hums in question from where he’s started to nose at Steve’s neck. He looks up and follows Steve’s line of vision, and grins.

“I like the way you think, princess.” He says, and something’s nagging at the back of Steve’s mind. Something’s telling him there’s something he should be remembering. But Billy’s striding toward the hot tub, shedding his clothes as he walks, and Steve can hardly focus on breathing. 

He’s immediately up and walking after Billy, shucking his t-shirt and joggers near the stairs leading into the jacuzzi. He waits for a second to see if Billy’s going to--and yep, here he goes, he’s taking off his underwear too. Steve’s lucky they regularly clean this hot tub. 

Steve’s about to take his own boxer-briefs off when something catches his eye during a routine up-down-up checkout of the boy next to him’s body and he stops Billy where he stands. 

“Wait just a _ fucking _ second.” He says, and Billy looks confused, before looking at the spot Steve’s pointing to on Billy’s hip bone. Moving his hand away, Steve reveals a small tattoo in the shape of, what else, a rose. 

“Are you? Do you mean to tell me? Are you _ fucking _with me?” He asks, and Billy shrugs.

“I was...gonna tell you about that.” He says, and Steve’s eyes get impossibly wider.

“You_ knew _?? The whole time? And you didn’t tell me it was you?” He asks incredulously. Billy shrugs.

“How was I supposed to? We weren’t friends when it started, and by the time the tutoring thing happened it would’ve been too late! You could’ve figured it out on your own, to be honest.” He says, taking the last step into the hot tub and lounging out on one of the seats built into the wall. 

“Figured it--_ how _?” Steve asks, and Billy shrugs like it’s the most simple thing in the world.

“W is short for William, dillweed. William is long for Billy.” And closes his eyes, laying back in the hot tub. He opens one eye to look at Steve. “You coming in?” 

Steve guesses so. And he gets in the tub, grumbling something or other about _ can’t believe we’ve been sexting for months and you didn’t tell me, we literally shared a passionate handjob at a halloween party and you didn’t tell me i hate you so much you gorgeous piece of shit _.

\------------------------

Later, after they’ve made out for hours, Steve sits on Billy’s lap in the hot tub when he realizes something.

“Wait, how did you know it was me?” He asks, and Billy shrugs, running a hand through Steve’s now-wet hair.

“Max gave me your number in like, high school, dude. I’ve had it for years.”

**Author's Note:**

> my god this took me 3 years and changed fandoms twice but its done now and i am free from my prison. talk to me about it if u want :)


End file.
